Suzette Elgin - Native Tongue

Aquina kept saying that we had to decide what to DO… well, imagine a person standing on a block of ice, planning and planning and planning. Planning ways to get about on the ice, ways to decorate it, ways to divide it up, ways to cope with all the possible knowns and givens of a block of ice. That would be a busy person, provident and industrious and independent and admirable, isn’t that so? Except that when the ice melts, none of that is any use at all.

We women had set a flame upon the ice, and it was inevitable that the ice would melt. In such a time, having never known anything but life upon the ice, you cannot do ; in such a time, you can only be .

I would have explained, if I had known how; it wasn’t that I was trying to keep anything secret. It hurt me that I didn’t know how to explain. I would wake up in the morning and think, perhaps this will be the day when the words that would explain are given to me; but it never happened. I grew to be very very old, and it never did happen.

The meeting was an unusual one, in every way. Every place at the table was filled, and it had been necessary to bring in extra chairs to seat the overflow that couldn’t be fit at the table proper. Not only were the full complement of men from Chornyak Household there, but a delegation of three senior men and two junior from each of the other twelve Lines, attending in person. Ordinarily this outside representation would have been handled by computer conference to avoid the inconvenience and overcrowding… And looking at it now, seeing everyone jammed in elbow to elbow at the table, those in the chairs lining the walls already uncomfortable before the meeting even began, James Nathan wondered if he had made a mistake when he chose this alternative.

At his elbow, David Chornyak was wondering the same thing, and he and James Nathan stared at each other in quick consternation, and then looked quickly away. It was too late now, whether it had been an error or not; they were all here, and the best thing to do was get on with the business of the day as swiftly as possible.

“Go on, Jim,” said David under his breath. “Let’s get this over with.”

James Nathan nodded, and pressed the small stud beneath the table. He disliked the sound of the thing… his grandfather Paul John’s choice of a falling minor third would not have been his choice. But the tones did stop the muttering and get everyone turned to face him, which was their function.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” James Nathan began, “and my thanks to all of you for coming here in person. I know you’re not particularly comfortable, and I regret that. I’m afraid we’ve never had any need for conference facilities here at Chornyak Household.”

Nigel Shawnessey, whose Household in Switzerland did have conference facilities, cleared his throat elaborately and gave the ceiling a significant glance. He considered this a ridiculous imposition, carried out only as a vehicle for a display of dominance. And wholly unnecessary. Nobody had ever challenged Chornyak House for the position of Head of the Lines, and so long as the Chornyaks continued to produce men of the traditional caliber nobody ever would.

James Nathan had not missed the bit of body-parl, and he knew what it meant, but he didn’t agree. Filling the shoes of Thomas Blair Chornyak had not been easy; stepping into them at forty-six had come perilously close to being beyond his abilities. Nobody had ever anticipated such a thing, with his father in robust health and only just turned seventy… the Chornyak men filled their posts well into their eighties ordinarily, and sometimes longer than that.

There had been nothing ordinary about having a Head murdered by a madwoman. And the effort of assuming Thomas Blair’s role, so suddenly and without any of the usual mechanisms of transition, had brought painfully home to James Nathan the need to keep a tight rein on the Lines. Which was, even as he thought it, so awkward and unfelicitous a phrase that it made him smile. A tight rein on the Lines, indeed… thank God he hadn’t said that aloud! And he had been adamant about this meeting — under no circumstances would he have called it at Shawnessey Household, and found himself obliged to run the meeting while Nigel Shawnessey played host, with all the intricate burdens that would have laid upon the Chornyak men as guests. Thomas would have done it that way, and never given it a thought, but he was not Thomas, and he knew it. Oh no… he might be young, and he might have tumbled into the Headship a bit abruptly, but he was not stupid.

“Our agenda today,” he said smoothly, “is a single topic, and a most unusual one. The last meeting of this particular kind was held in 2088, when the decision was made to build Chornyak Barren House, and we were fewer in number in those days. I’ve called the meeting only because the time I was having to spend listening to complaints from all of you about this matter had begun to take up an absurd proportion of my days — and my nights. And I insisted on having all of you here in person because leaks to the media would have been more than usually unacceptable in this case. Security on the comset network isn’t adequate, as all of you know to your sorrow — and it would be very distasteful to have this affair become a topic for the popnews commentators.”

“Damn right,” said half a dozen men heartily, and the rest made noises of agreement.

“Very well, then,” said James Nathan. “Since we understand one another, we will move at once to discussion. Our subject today, gentlemen, is… the women.”

“Where are they, by the way?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Well,” said the man from Verdi Household, “talking of leaks and distasteful indiscretions and so on… where are the Chornyak women while this meeting is going on?”

James Nathan answered in a tone that made his resentment of the question clear. “Arrangements have been made,” he said stiffly. “You needn’t concern yourself.”

“Arrangements? What sort of arrangements?”

Verdi was damned rude, and he’d have to be set right at the first opportunity. But not now, thought James Nathan, not now; this was not the place for personal discussions.

“Most of the women are at negotiations,” he said. “Those who were free have been given a variety of assignments off the grounds. There are no females at Chornyak Household today except those under two years of age — I assume my colleague will trust us to prevent any serious indiscretions in those infants.”

Point scored; Luke Verdi flushed slightly, and said no more.

“Now,” James Nathan went on, “I’ve heard essentially the same story, and the same complaints, from every one of you. I am personally aware of the situation as well; this Household is not immune. But we need a summary from someone, to make sure that we are in fact dealing with a general problem; this is far too grave a matter to be settled hastily. I need not remind you that we must anticipate a strong reaction from the public, no matter what we decide to do.”

“The hell with the public,” said a junior man from Jefferson Household.

“We’re in no position to take that stance,” James Nathan told him, “even if it were consistent with the policies of the Lines — which it is not.”

“It’s none of the public’s damn business, if you ask me.”

“I didn’t ask you, and I won’t. But I am going to ask for that summary, and I know precisely whom to ask. Dano, would you do the honors?”

Dano Mbal, of Mbal Household, was an imposing man and one accustomed to narration. He was very good at it. Narration, oration, declamation — all male linguists were trained for those, as they were trained in phonetics or political strategy; all three were essential skills in the use of the voice as a mechanism of power. But Dano had gifts that went beyond the training. He could read you a list of agricultural chemicals and keep you on the edge of the chair. And he inclined his head slightly now, to indicate that he was willing to be spokesman.